spiritual

I knew we were being watched in the convent. Too closely in my opinion. But, in spite of their motive in saying so, I never felt watched by God. I also never felt bullied by that same deity. If anything, I felt his absence.

I felt ignored by him.

Forgotten.

Unimportant.

In spite of endless hours on my knees in prayer, I never felt one inch closer to that distant, male god of my youth.

Years later, however, I look back and realize how Spirit had been there for me all along, and how she/it tendered me along through the gray labyrinth of those seemingly endless days.

As I look back now and write about the emptiness, I reclaim that Presence, and allow it to wash over my years. And though I understand he/she/it no better, I embrace and celebrate it fully.

In every day–and every moment–and with every breath.

In my book, I retrace the journey of my loss and unexpected rediscovery.

It feels like I’m walking barefoot in the snowdrift outside my door, and leaving deep imprints on the frozen landscape. Beginning a new blog feels the same…like mincing cold-footedly through the how to’s and what for’s of a new dashboard.

Slippery and cold terrain for me.

Getting used to the convent was worse, because I was only fifteen years old and four hundred miles from home.

So, for the past few years, I’v been up to my eyeballs putting words on paper, and trying to slog my way through the writing terrain. I aim to finish and finally published a book by the end of 2014.